While I’m always urging filmmakers to push the envelope, sometimes it can be nice to see a movie that takes no risks and is proud of it.  Provided that the movie is pleasant, easygoing, light and breezy like a Sunday stroll in the park, these movies can be a real treat to sit back, relax, and enjoy.  Very few movies get my “Sunday stroll” certification, and “My Week with Marilyn” earns it with ease.

It’s a little more serious than the usual stroll, it’s a great deal of fun to watch largely because of how easily Michelle Williams totally loses herself in the persona of Marilyn Monroe.  She effortlessly brings to life the charm, the sultriness, and the seduction of the actress, making us wonder if we’re falling in love with Monroe all over again – or Williams for the first time.  While she has shocked in “Blue Valentine” and riveted in “Brokeback Mountain,” Williams has shied away from endearing and glamorous characters.  Yet with Marilyn Monroe, it provides the perfect marriage of her stunning, red-carpet looks and grace with her remarkable ability to plumb the depths of tortured and confused women.

The script by Adrian Hodges gives Williams an ample base to build her interpretation of Monroe without constraining her artistic decisions.  She may spout some lines we would expect the famed actress to say, but he thankfully realizes that the majority of the performance would come from her physicality and the bubbling psychological torment she builds up so deftly.  It’s a perfect blend of understated and flashy that will make you want to spend a week with Marilyn.

Indeed, a week is all that young Colin Clark (Eddie Redmayne), the upstart and ambitious 23-year-old who lands a job working on Laurence Olivier’s lastest film, gets to spend in love and longing with Marilyn.  When marital tensions with her husband, playwright Arthur Miller, begin to threaten her work in “The Prince and the Showgirl,” she looks to young Colin for that puppy love to get her through.  Despite everyone telling not to be beguiled, including her staff, Olivier himself (Kenneth Branagh), and his conscience which tells him that he cares for costume designer Lucy (Emma Watson), he decides to let himself fall.

Playing out behind this love story are a number of interesting subplots, namely Laurence Olivier, played with accuracy and love by Kenneth Branagh, as he faces his own inadequacies as an actor when confronted with Marilyn’s talent.  His total lack of patience with the entire production reduces the fabled actor to his inner whiny child, which makes for quite an amusing watch.  Judi Dench as veteran actress Sybil Thorndike also makes for good fun in her few scenes.

The movie feels a little slight, sure, but it never has any pretensions of seeming so.  From the first slightly out-of-place musical number, it declares that the movie is not about Colin, the character whom the narrative revolves around, but about Marilyn Monroe.  ”My Week with Marilyn” mostly just exists as a frame for Michelle Williams’ performance.  But hey, it’s not all too bad looking of a frame.  B / 

Dujardin, often said to be the French equivalent of George Clooney, stars as Hubert Bonissieur de la Bath – code name OSS 117.  In 1955, he’s sent to investigate the death of fellow agent and close (perhaps too close) friend Jack in Cairo, where he stumbles into a web of international espionage involving Egyptians, British, Russians, and Nazis with a very personal score to settle.  He also has to deal with women fawning all over him, including his femme fatale escort Larmina El Akmar Betouche, played with charm by Bejo.  Together, and at times separately, they work to get to the bottom of Jack’s murder with intrigue and hilarity following them always.

Hazanavicius is an incredibly astute observer of style, and much like “The Artist” felt like a movie straight out of the 1920s, “OSS 117″ feels like pure 1960s campy fun.  The difference is in the approach – while the early Bond movies were cool but unconsciously a little corny, this movie is unabashedly and fully intentional in their ridiculousness.  OSS 117 is an outrageous character, as clumsy and bumbling as he is suave.  He spends more time insulting Larmina’s culture and customs than he does wooing her, yet she’s totally seduced nonetheless.  Hazanavicius toys with our preconceived notions of the genre in such clever and crafty ways, subverting them so effectively and often that I doubt I’ll ever watch a Bond movie in the same way.

While I’m definitely open to people finding innovative new ways to approach the tired and typical de rigueur biopic, screenwriter Abi Morgan’s solution doesn’t give us an overview of Thatcher so much as it gives us her opinion of Thatcher.  By anchoring the movie in her declining years as she suffers from Alzheimer’s and the resultant hallucinations of her deceased husband Dennis (Jim Broadbent), “The Iron Lady” starts with the proposition that Margaret Thatcher is crazy.  Director Phyllida Lloyd then complements this by giving these scenes the ambience of paranoid thriller as she slips in and out of reality, all the while wondering if her caretakers will take her away from home.

Then, once her spacey unreliability has been established, they begin the voyage into her storied past from her days as Margaret Roberts, the grocer’s daughter, to her rise in the Conservative Party all the way to the top position as Margaret Thatcher.  The structure barely works as it stands because it shifts so abruptly, giving the movie the same uneven and rough feel that Lloyd bequeathed to her film adaptation of “Mamma Mia.”  But the worst part is that, whether it came from Morgan’s script or Lloyd’s direction, the voices don’t go away and Thatcher is made out to be crazy even when she was totally in her right mind.

Apparently, just being conservative classifies you as a looney in this movie’s universe.  Thatcher’s accomplishments as a woman and a leader are substantial, but you would never know she was the British counterpart to Ronald Reagan because the movie is so busy framing her as crazy and a failed wife and mother.  Her successes are really only highlighted in a montage, yet her failures and shortcomings are explored in much more detail.  Granted it probably happens all the time in politics nowadays, but what does it say about Thatcher’s success if to become Prime Minister, she needs to totally change her image?  How is it a victory for women if Thatcher wins by making herself more appealing and less true?

The only victory of the movie, it would appear, is Meryl Streep in yet another incredible performance.  It’s unfair to judge her by her own standards – which are to the sky – but it certainly falls short of the power of Sister Aloysius in “Doubt” or the effortless inhabitation of Julia Child in “Julie & Julia.”  Nevertheless, it is still unbelievable how she slides into Thatcher’s persona, both as her resolved younger self and her fragile older self (with the help of some very skilled make-up artists).  She nails Thatcher’s strength and accent, making her hobbling frailty all the more frightening.

Yet undermining her constantly are the direction, which feels halfheartedly committed to its own calculations, and the script, at odds with Streep’s fair and careful portrayal.  For instance, Morgan seems to insinuate that since Thatcher was honest and frank with her colleagues, she deserves to be classified as the dreaded B-word.  But Streep doesn’t think so; she just sees Thatcher as someone deeply convicted in the need for efficacy and candor.  However, Streep has to read Morgan’s words, resulting in a muddled mess of a character.  The Iron Lady herself deserves better, and hopefully someone will revisit her story and give her a chance.  C- / 

One of the best compliments I can give “War Horse” is that it feels like Robert Zemeckis’ “Forrest Gump,” just following a smart horse instead of a dumb man.  Both films are among the best cinematic examples of cinematic historical fiction, showing the way things were through unique perspectives that make us rethink how we ourselves see them.  They extoll the power of one good, pure-hearted soul to intertwine us all into a common destiny – and then throw in beautiful landscapes, gorgeous sunsets, and a poignant score by maestro John Williams.

By now, you’ve probably heard all the main talking points on this movie.  Detractors decry it for being all schmaltz and sentimentality, as if they were so far below Spielberg.  Fans love it for its warmth and touching narrative, as if Spielberg had lost his mojo since “Schindler’s List.”  Basically, they just found different ways to react to same thing: this is a movie designed to tug on your heartstrings in thinly-veiled manipulation using old-time technique and sensibility.

You can choose to either judge this movie on principle or on execution; I choose the latter as the movie is unapologetically and unabashedly what it is, and that’s totally fine with me.  Where it becomes an issue, though, is when it falls just short of the lofty expectations it sets for itself.  Granted, it’s a little unfair to judge Steven Spielberg against his own work, which contains many of the modern masterpieces of our time, but it lacks both the visceral and the emotional intensity of his previous films that “War Horse” can’t help but harken back to.

Don’t let the title fool you; this is a two-and-a-half hour movie about a horse with war merely a backdrop.  (Less than ten minutes of the film actually feature combat, so don’t come in expecting “Saving Private Ryan.”)  Yet while it has little to do with war itself, it has everything do with the humanity at stake in tense situations such as war.  The movie affirms perhaps the quintessential Spielbergian value: no matter when two sides spar, we are all tied together by a common thread of dignity and caring.  In these moments, what we need to do is communicate.  Often times, we don’t realize that this is what we need to solve our problems – something else has to remind us.  In “War Horse,” that something is Joey, the horse who must embark on a journey that would make Odysseus cower.

He begins befriending teenaged Albert (Jeremy Irvine), a bond that proves to be durable in that way only possible in the real of cinema.  While Joey may save the family farm, he still gets sold to the British military at the outset of the Great War for additional income.  Joey sees it all, from the Allies to the Central Powers, hope for a quick resolution to disillusionment at its entrenched stalemate, passing from human to human and inspiring soul-searching and sparking discussion.  He changes the lives of everyone he meets, though not always for the better, all the while maintaing a firm resolve to return home to Albert.

Spielberg crafts a film where the horse doesn’t merely provide the spark for a human journey but is actually a character in his own right.  He has complex emotions, not just expressions of primal needs like eating, and it’s remarkable how the direction can make us feel them without ever making Joey feel like a ridiculous cartoon or implausibly magical.  Whether it’s E.T. or Joey, Spielberg sure does know how to bring out our most human qualities by showing them in something else.

And how interesting that Joey also speaks to a very 2011/2012 theme, both in cinemas and in America: out with the old, in with the new is a rather demoralizing philosophy.  In World War I, the old cavalry charge was being replaced with the tanks and gas weapons, which looked like a way to ensure a swifter, more efficient victory.  However, as history tells us and Spielberg shows us, this was not the case; it merely made it possible to kill more people while making even more minimal gains.  The lush greens and gorgeous countrysides of the first act in 1914 make the gray, muddy no-mans-land in 1918 all the more depressing and affecting at the end of the film.

Perhaps the most frightening scene in the film is when Joey is trapped between a wall of barbed wire and an encroaching iron tank.  In Hollywood, it’s 3D, motion capture, shooting digital, and video game culture pushing filmmakers and auteurs back towards obsolescence.  In American culture as a whole, it’s Facebook, email, and the overall digitalization of life pinning us against a fate of unbearable obliviousness.  Yet when Joey leaps over the tank and begins a mad dash towards safety, it’s an empowering moment as we all hope that the old can survive against the pernicious onslaught of the new.

Yet “War Horse,” for some reason, never packs the emotional punch equivalent to its wide lens and sweeping storyline.  It comes sappy and sweet, sure, but it feels disproportionate in power to the rest of the film.  Much can be attributed to the script, which falls into some hackneyed traps for obvious emotional goading.  When Spielberg cues up his music, shows the fecundity of the English fields, and sends Joey galloping across the screen, you can sense him asking or begging you to feel – an offer you can refuse.  But even if you choose to stonewall his requests, or simply fail to be moved on the scope he intends, the incredible Spielberg bravura will still stun and awe on a very high level.  B+ / 

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It’s slightly disingenuous to make a film all about the magic of the movies and then have little to offer itself in the way of enchantment, but that’s what Martin Scorsese’s “Hugo” is – take it or leave it.  His ode to the pioneering days of cinema, when trailblazers like the Lumière Brothers began making movies and Georges Méliès invented special effects, is definitely heartfelt and powerful enough to awaken plenty of latent nostalgia.  However, his movie serves as a better tribute to their genius than it does as an equally majestic film deserving to stand alongside them in the annals of history.

What I left the theater being nostalgic for was “Goodfellas” and “The Departed” and “Gangs of New York.”  While I certainly admire Scorsese for taking on a radically different project, and good for Paramount to give him $150 million to realize this passion of his, I missed the bullet-riddled, F-bomb filled director that I’ve come to love.  It’s a very finely crafted movie, clearly the work of an expert like Scorsese.  All of the below-the-line elements are as good as ever with his usual suspects – editor Thelma Schoonmaker, costume designer Sandy Powell, production designer Dante Ferretti, and cinematographer Robert Richardson – returning to whisk us away to a train station in 1930s Paris with astounding precision.

While all that craftsmanship will likely win over Academy voters, it wins little more than my admiration and respect.  While there are plenty of things to praise about “Hugo,” its ability to evoke the childlike sense of wonder of watching a movie is not one of them, and this is where the crew could have swept in and delivered.  Not even the much heralded 3D – which I found to be rather ordinary – made me stop and surrender totally to the movie.

I think the uneven, choppy script by John Logan is the root of the movie’s issues.  While it works in bits and pieces, the story seems to ramble off in strange directions when it should be focused on the main narrative of young, orphaned Hugo Cabret and his quest to find his purpose in the mechanism of life.  The events of the train station are amusing, sure, but they feel like cutting-room floor material or DVD extras expanding on bit parts we don’t have time to see much.  Then, he quickly changes gears to focus less on the characters and more on crafting the most expensive and preachy PSA ever made … and it’s for film preservation.  I will be the first person to argue for the importance of film in capturing our history and our culture, but this seems like hardly the time or place to bring up the issue.

Indeed, the children’s movie format allows Scorsese to be incredibly didactic and less artistic about bringing up the need to preserve film, something that irked me as it felt like I was immersed only to be inculcated.  He practically crafts himself a surrogate in Michael Stuhlbarg’s film historian, René Tabard.  Given the incredible canon of films he has directed, surely such a lowball emotional ploy could have been more cleverly presented.  But perhaps “Hugo” signals a new Scorsese – older and more willing to scream his values from the rooftoop.

Nonetheless, this gentler Scorsese does know how to make one heck of a kids movie, mixing the entertaining with the thought-provoking and moral quite daftly.  Hugo (Asa Butterfield), the movie-loving clock-fixer, befriending Isabelle (Chloe Moretz) is one of the – dare I say – sweeter companionships I’ve seen in movies geared toward younger audiences.  He teaches her to marvel at the movies too, and soon, their passion and ingenuity will resurrect the disillusioned filmmaker Georges Méliès (Ben Kingsley) from his self-imposed moratorium on cinema after World War I.  He grapples with very adult themes in a way that doesn’t insult them by dumbing them down but makes them relatable and understandable in more sentimental terms, so calling “Hugo” a kids movie almost seems to miss the point.

Oh, and they also run away from a dim-witted train inspector played with headache-inducing inaneness by Sacha Baron Cohen (yes, Brüno and Borat).  If Scorsese wants to keep making movies like this, I just ask that he find the magic and dump Cohen in a straight-to-DVD “Home Alone” sequel where his cartoonish antics belong.  B / 

If the sheer bliss of being transported back to a simpler era like Owen Wilson in “Midnight in Paris” (minus the reality check at the end) doesn’t get you, then the sheer charm of the movie is bound to make you weak at the knees.  Between the wonderfully emotional story, the jaunty score by Ludovic Bource, and the magnetic and charismatic performances of the lead actors, Jean Dujardin and Bérénice Bejo, the undeniable heart of the movie will register with you on some deep, emotional level at least in fleeting moments.  For me, the “Waltz for Peppy” sequence is one of the most beautiful, touching scenes committed to film in recent memory, ranking in the pantheon with the postcards scene from “Benjamin Button” and the wedding sequence from “Up in the Air.”

You can’t refute the passionate love behind crafting “The Artist;” however, you may be able to resist falling passionately in love with it.  The movie’s simplicity and breeziness, while a main component in making sure the film’s silent strategy works, also leaves a bit of longing for something more.  While there are moments where Hazanavicius exhibits a Charlie Kaufman-esque flair for the meta, overall, the movie lacks a great spark of originality in its plot.  At times, it settles for clever homages to movies like “Singing in the Rain” and loving winks to classics like “Vertigo” where it could have forged its own trail.

But the idea to make a silent film in the age of big, booming blockbusters is original enough to work and please me!  Had the tale been as interesting as the technology, “The Artist” would be an A+, best of all time movie.  But I’m perfectly fine just saying that for a little over 90 minutes, I embarked on a nifty, fun journey that was pure-hearted cinematic joy.  To dwell in a time where a man and a woman couldn’t kiss on screen (see the Hays Code), so innocuous and innocent, was blissfully transporting.

It wouldn’t be nearly such a bon voyage - a good journey, as translated literally in the native French of “The Artist” – without the wildly funny and endearing characters created by Dujardin and Bejo.  As star-crossed movie stars, Dujardin’s George Valentin is on his way down in the talkie era, refusing to embrace the technology because of pride and stubbornness, while Bejo’s Peppy Miller is on her way up thanks to a can-do spirit and her willingness to adapt.  She’s a ball of spunk and charisma who will have your heart just as soon as you look at her, while he’s a well-meaning showboat whose prickly ego often gets in the way of his good intentions.  Both are totally convincing silent-era figures, just as Dujardin and Bejo feel like naturals in the pre-1927 acting style.  They find the balance between naturalism and sensationalism, giving us enough entertainment to stay riveted but never going so over the top that the ridiculousness makes us doubt the film’s veracity.

There’s also the matter of George’s scene-stealing canine companion, played by Uggie, who gives the single greatest animal performance on screen ever.  I know I said that about Cosmo in “Beginners” six months ago, but little did I know that “The Artist” was going to come around and make a dog the most lovable character of the year, registering more awwws than I thought were possible.  How Hazanavicius coached such a great performance out of Uggie, I have no idea, just like I have no idea how he made a full-throttle silent movie work so seamlessly.  No matter how he managed it, I’m so glad he did.  A- / 

You don’t need to know who Hergé’s Tintin is to enjoy the “The Adventures of Tintin,” all you need is to be primed for an exhilarating and fun adventure with the man who introduced many of us to adventure itself, Steven Spielberg.  Whether it was “Jurassic Park,” an “Indiana Jones” movie, or “E.T.,” the director – whose name has become synonymous with cinematic virtuosity – has once again vividly realized the power of technology to invoke an old-fashioned sense of wonder in movie watching.  With the motion-capture technology looking more real and life-like than ever, it makes for an interesting paradox that “Tintin” removes you so easily from reality while so seamlessly replicating it.

Thanks to Spielberg’s partnership with Peter Jackson and his visual effects team at WETA, the two filmmakers take leaps and bounds from the early Zemeckis films like “The Polar Express” and “Beowulf” to fully capture the complexity of human anatomy and emotionality.  As a result, there’s nothing to distract you from getting fully engrossed in this old-fashioned Spielbergian adventure, no moment where you can think that a character looks fake or like an out-of-place animated replica.  It has been remarkable to watch this technology improve over my lifetime, and “Tintin,” along with “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” makes 2011 a landmark year for its progression.

Sure, the plot is a tad bit shallow, but Spielberg captures the spirit of a comic book without dumbing it down or subjecting it to turbo-charged numbness and vacuity of his puerile imitators.  It feels wrong to call a 30 year old movie “old-fashioned” or “classical” filmmaking, but after every filmmaker and his mother tried to make their own “Raiders of the Lost Ark,” the original feels like a classic, tired and true.  Boy journalist Tintin – wide-eyed, creative, and pragmatic – and his canine companion (in many ways his equal) Snowy don’t anticipate finding a story when they buy a model sailing ship from a street vendor.  However, it comes looking for them as the model contains a clue to a lost 17th century treasure sought after by competing forces.

Before the duo realizes it, they have been swept into a massive global treasure hunt that will take them across countries and continents, by planes, boats, and motorcycles, and alongside the helpless, hapless inebriate Captain Haddock.  It’s the kind of journey that needs someone like Spielberg to take it from ho-hum to wow as his remarkable penchant for balancing story advancement with the captivating action that we hungered for as a child.  With the motion-capture technology at his disposal, he has an enhanced ability to awe us at every turn and with every frame. “The Adventures of Tintin” is a fun (if not entirely remarkable or distinguished) addition to the director’s will harken back to that magical experience of discovering that the movies are the best medium to project our grandest ambitions and dreams.  B+ / 

It all begins with Jerry Maguire-esque moment of awakening for Wilkinson’s Arthur Edens, an incredibly respected New York attorney, who suddenly realizes that he no longer wishes to deny his conscience by representing UNorth in a class action lawsuit that violates his ethics.  After meeting with the victims of the company’s agrochemical products, the class action suit suddenly gets a human face for him … and Arthur feels the need to purge this skin of falseness so urgently that he strips naked in the middle of a deposition room.

While Arthur has a history of mental shakiness, Clooney’s Michael Clayton, the fixer for their firm Kenner, Bach & Ledeen, knows that there’s something more to the meltdown that a few chemical issues.  Michael, facing staggering debt from a failed restaurant and questioning the value of his job, is forced into a rigorous self-examination that Clooney animates with the perfect balance of internalized and externalized emotion.  He proves himself to be one of the best, if not THE best, actor of his generation at exploring tortured souls.  He realizes Michael’s flaws so vividly but finds some hidden nobility so we care about the journey even while vacillating on our opinion of the character.

Meanwhile, the scene stealer is Swinton’s Karen Crowder, the general counsel for UNorth.  She’s an über-Type A perfectionist who labors and frets over the smallest of details and really has no idea how to handle a situation like Arthur’s, which threatens to undo years of litigation and jeopardize millions of the company’s dollars – not to mention their reputation.  As he descends into madness (or a divine clarity depending on where you stand), she descends into a professional hell where her off-the-record, back-alley decisions make the difference for the fate of the lawsuit.  Karen, like the rest of the characters in the movie, are so richly written by Gilroy, who uses them to explore complex issues without ever being preachy or turning “Michael Clayton” into a silly morality play. In an era where “Inside Job” shows the actual moral bankruptcy of corporate America, the four-year-old movie remains incredibly relevant.

If I were sitting in a test screening or reviewing the script of “A Dangerous Method,” I could sum up all my reactions in a lyric from an Elvis Presley song: a little less conversation, a little more action please.  There’s plenty of interesting psychoanalytic banter between the three main characters, but from the beginning it  is evident that screenwriter Christopher Hampton is much like the long-winded priest of your childhood who is perfectly content to listen to himself talk all day.  While it can be intellectually stimulating at times (although its appeal might be limited to those with prior knowledge in the field of psychology), director David Cronenberg makes little case for why this should be a movie and not a textbook or an educational play at the Museum of Natural History.

That’s not to say that the feud between the psychoanalytic master Freud (Viggo Mortensen) and his thoughtful analytic practitioner Jung (Michael Fassbender) doesn’t have its moments of compelling drama, nor does it mean that the taut sexual tension in the doctor-patient relationship between Jung and the crazy/crazily intelligent Sabina Spielrein (Keira Knightley) isn’t an interesting study of sexual desires and repressions.  But Cronenberg’s movie, largely due to Hampton’s script, is at war with itself, unable to decide what it is and how it wants to address its internal contradictions.  The balancing act is made especially difficult by the fact that the battle of the minds is a rather understated conflict while the battle of the sexes is garishly over the top due to Knightley’s performance.  Is it a movie of ideas or a movie about Jung’s self-examination through those ideas?

Rather than pick one of these stories to tell with great focus and resolve, Hampton decides to tell both and do neither sufficient justice.  The relationship drama with Sabina, which involves debating adultery and monogamy as Jung is both a husband and father, has some compelling moments.  Yet if you take away the reputation of Jung and remove Howard Shore’s serious score, it plays out like a standard romantic comedy of star-crossed lovers.  Man and woman constrained by society and the nature of their relationship, but their carnal attraction overcomes obstacles and forces them to confront their feelings about each other.  Sound familiar?

It’s easy not to think about that, though, because Keira Knightley overacts Sabina to the rafters.  It’s like her character escaped from an “SNL” sketch about a female version of “One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest.”  Especially in her early scenes in the movie where she is clinically ill, her character seems to be a more natural screen cohabitant with Kristin Wiig in “Bridesmaids” than acclaimed actors like Mortensen and Fassbender.  Her physicality is so bizarrely exaggerated that it’s hard to constrain the giggles, especially when Sabina seems to have a particular proclivity for contorting her face into a protruding underbite.

Meanwhile, in the battle of wits with the professional tussles between Freud and Jung, both actors seem much more focused on talking than acting.  We get the thematics of the script and a little bit of Psych 101, but it’s hardly a proper use of such talented actors.  It makes for an interesting paradox that in a movie about two men that got to the root of emotional repression, most of the emotions and conflict is heavily internalized and bubbling under the surface.  There’s conflict, sure, but it doesn’t seem to be leading anywhere concrete other than to a rift that we sense coming from their first conversation.  Much like “A Dangerous Method” itself, these two great minds have no shortage of words.  However, while their work took the world uncharted and exciting territory, the work of Hampton and Cronenberg merely takes us in circles around their theories.  B- / 

Maybe it’s the sort of child-like wonder and awe that Bird brings with him from Pixar that makes this movie “Mission: Enjoyable.”  But whatever that X factor is, it works well.  There’s slightly less substance and character development than J.J. Abrams’ last installment in the series five years ago, which also featured one of the most maniacal villains in recent memory in Philip Seymour Hoffman’s Owen Davian.  But when you’re seeing Tom Cruise actually scale the world’s tallest building in the world – yes, he actually did that stunt himself – Bird more than compensates for the film’s major shortcoming.

He draws on two valuable resources to make the movie such ruckus fun.  The first is simplicity: it’s much easier to enjoy the ride when you aren’t having to keep track of a million different characters and names caught up in a huge scheme of political espionage.  When it’s Tom Cruise’s Ethan Hunt, being as corny and ridiculously impetuous as ever, being backed up by an eclectic IMF squad going against a crazy Swedish scientist and a small gang of confederates trying to nuke the world, it makes it easier to sit back and enjoy the car chases and the cool gadgets.

His second resource is jetsetting, which I’m sure is made possible by producer Tom Cruise who had faith in this movie when I’m sure Paramount wasn’t jumping up and down on a couch for a fourth movie in the series.  The key to the pacing of a “Mission: Impossible” movie is rather simple: don’t let the audience get bored!  And indeed, we can’t as we go from Russia to Dubai to India, each with numerous sequences of Cruise seal-of-approval worthy awesomeness.  Location scouts also found the coolest, hippest places to film, such as cutting-edge parking garages and brand new buildings so we are never jaded by the familiar.

Not to mention that if you are able to see this movie on an IMAX screen, which I highly recommend, you will be forced to verbalize your response to the movie.  By that, I mean you won’t be able to resist whispering “THAT’S SO COOL!” to the person next to you.  ”Mission: Impossible – Ghost Protocol” as seen through the lens of Academy Award-winning cinematographer Robert Elswit on a 60-foot screen is one of the most jaw-dropping, blood-pumping sights you can see for under $20 in America.  While nothing can top watching the breathtaking Hong Kong jump scene from “The Dark Knight” in IMAX, Tom Cruise scaling a building using suction gloves comes pretty darned close.

Yes, Cruise is still as cheesy as ever and probably still thinks he is God’s gift to cinema, but this movie reminds us why at least some of it is justified.  There’s also the presence of Jeremy Renner and his unbridled manliness to cancel out a little bit of Tom Cruise’s pompousness.  But Cruise is much more of an asset than a liability to “Ghost Protocol,” and with the help of Brad Bird, this 15 year-old movie franchise feels as fresh and exciting as ever.  A- /